After a moment, Tilly takes a deep breath, steadying herself. ‘It’s not just the flashy car, Mum,’ she says slowly, looking anxious. ‘There’s another reason I panicked . . . Um, have you seen the stuff online?’
Paula glances at Ivy, whose eyes are wide and alert. ‘No, why? What do you mean?’
Tilly swallows. ‘You haven’t checked your Facebook lately?’
Paula shakes her head again, fear creeping up the back of her neck. ‘What is . . . What’s going on?’
Her daughter shuffles closer. ‘OK, look, it’s not a huge deal and I don’t want you to panic, but someone wrote an article last week . . .’ – she pauses – ‘about you.’
‘About me?’ Paula is confused. The lottery winner widow stuff had died down, hadn’t it? Why would anyone still care?
Tilly looks around at the group of people she doesn’t know, all listening intently. ‘Shall we talk about this in the car? Or at home?’
Paula shakes her head quickly. ‘No, it’s fine, tell me.’
She sighs, looking a bit annoyed. ‘Mum, it’s kind of aprivatematter.’
Seb takes a sip of his beer. ‘Stop making it into a massive drama, Tills. It’s not that big of a deal.’ He looks directly at Paula. ‘It was just some rubbish online about how weird it was that Dad died just as you won the lottery. They thought it was suspicious and then with the way you reacted at the press conference, running off like that. They said it was like you had something to hide. They suggested . . .’ He glances away awkwardly. ‘Whatever. Anyway, the story got shared a bit and some idiots on the internet – a small handful of idiots – have been getting carried away with some stupid conspiracy theories.’
‘Conspiracy theories about . . . me?’ Paula asks, bewildered.
‘Mostly just on Facebook.’ Ivy moves closer. ‘And no one even uses Twitter anymore.’
‘X,’ Audrey corrects. ‘As in, theex-social media website that only misogynists frequent these days.’
‘I’d better go.’ Paula turns to her friends, suddenly feeling very sick. She has to get out of there. She needs to go home and google herself. She has to figure out what all of this means. She splutters a thank you to Teddy for having her, and the group exchange awkward hugs. Paula, Seb and Tilly head out via the ornate lift, as Seb gleefully volunteers to drive Paula’s car back home. She hands over her keys, her head spinning, and follows Tilly out onto the street, staring down at the pavement before her. She’s suddenly feeling very exposed and frightened by the outside world.
Seb didn’t say the words back there, but Paula got the inference.
It’s no longer just Audrey, Teddy and Ivy who think she killed John. It sounds like the rest of the world thinks so, too.
And now that final text she received yesterday makes sense. The one from the unknown number who’d previously just asked for money.
I know what your friends have done.
20
From: [email protected]
Subject: Secrets and lies
John,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. After everything that’s happened – after I found proof of your gambling – I didn’t think I ever wanted to speak to you again. But here I am.
The trouble is, you were my whole world. And I suppose I always knew I wasn’t yours, but finding out about this secret you had – this £50,000 you owed – has hit me very hard. I don’t know how I’m supposed to forgive you.
And with all of these things online now . . . it’s awful. People are calling me a murderer, John! They keep pointing to things from the press conference as ‘evidence’ of my guilt. How I acted so suspiciously; how I snapped at the photographers; the look on my face when I ran away. Even the pink jumper I wore is apparently proof,because, ‘what heartbroken new widow would wear such a tight pink sweater’.
It wasn’t even my jumper, John! Tilly brought it for me to wear – it was Misha’s.
And of course, everyone’s asking questions about the notebook I dropped. Your notebook, John. The one I found. It took me a while to understand what it all meant – all the numbers and dates – years of them in there – but I do now. And I can’t exactly explain it to the world, can I?
Although, in one way, the renewed media attention has been something like a blessing. The photographers are camped back outside our house again, and your friend Craig sent me a text message saying they can’t risk meeting with me while I’m being so closely watched by the entire world. He said the moment the noise dies down, he’ll be back to collect the money – the £50,000. I don’t know what to do, I’ve barely gathered together a few thousand so far.
I think he and his friends are still watching me from afar. I’ve had some more hang-up calls and strange messages on my phone. I tried unplugging the landline, but there were several voicemails when I checked. And hearing those minute-long, silently crackling recordings was somehow even more frightening than the rest of it.
